


December the 4th, 2009

by Luna_Lalonde



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:33:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21678286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Lalonde/pseuds/Luna_Lalonde
Summary: What goes on inside Rose's mind on an average, and not so average day.
Kudos: 6





	December the 4th, 2009

**Author's Note:**

> wip! posted for roses bday 2019! i plan to continue writing in the coming days

It takes an uncomfortably long time for my eyes to focus upon my awakening. Light sheds but a lonely beam unluckily upon my pupil’s exact position. How somber is the first morning ray of sun, how transient it’s travels, from horizon to midday apogee, and at this moment, with it’s proverbial finger on a button labeled “wake up, the time for sleep is long past, for none other than you”. It could be poetic, possibly inspiring a passionate jaunt out of the warm comfort of a bed in winter, transitioned gracefully to a stance befit of center stage in a play starring you in the story of your own life, with epic proclamations of the day and what of it will be seized and conquered, and what of it you will turn into your following musical number. That is, if you, by which I mean I, had not been sleepless undercover, only contrasting the present moment by reasoning of the lack of light, a mere hour beforehand. The hour of sleep come and gone, as lonely as the sun’s ray that has so broken the slumber’s cozy but fleeting hold over myself.

Though it was only an hour before first sunrise that I had fallen asleep, the day begins heedless of such toilings of one who might, despite my own protestations, mark the day as the thirteenth anniversary of her birth. That is to say, my own.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, I feel the need to tell myself upon catching sight of a sorrowful and, in comparison to the hallmark present day, ancient scrawled signature adorning a page of “art” that has graced the wall opposite my bed since the day I managed to craft it. The name scrawled thence, it should be noted, is not Rose Lalonde.

I unsuccessfully attempt to bat back the bleariness of far too temporary sleep that still partially obscures my vision. I don’t need to be able to see to know what the page on the wall says.

After what feels like an eternity to no one in particular other than myself, as comparisons and cross-examinations do not yet exist, or at least hold any metaphorical water in a room so dim and empty. The mass of others would cause the nonexistent liquid to raise higher by way of displacement, and therefore, the water would appear sufficiently held for an asinine leverage of one’s actions’ validity against another’s.

I decide contemplating asininity is even more asinine than whatever I originally slated that word to be used for, and resolve to break the monotony of my own mind and it’s echo chamber that is my bedroom, and get out of bed. (A decision and resolution in one thought, Lalonde, you’re starting out this tangentially important day strong I see). I stand at the door with hardly a memory of arriving at the spot, an action that most likely transpired quietly while my consciousness was caught up in drowning itself in a metaphor. Once I realize that I do in fact have control of these limbs that merely touch the floor where my sight is currently fixed, I pause. The pause turns into complete cease of motion, and quickly even to the cessation of breath passing through my lungs. I listen. From this very spot behind a closed door, most would remark at the acute lack of stimuli present, a quite literal barrier, one which can allow observation and passage through at a simple interaction at that, being before them, and possibly also the relative common sense that would follow that if one would wish to perceive the environs outside this room, they would open the door. I, however, expertly do precisely the opposite, putting into use a skill I have honed over years of dwelling in this room, which lies within a house with but one other inhabitant, I rely on only one sense to inform me of the goings on of this abode. My sight blurs in disuse, and I listen intently. I hear nothing. My mother is likely still asleep. The deer has secured it’s safety from those who would seek to do it harm.

Perhaps, though, my mother is a sly predator, and has counter-adapted a cunning silence, to deceive any prey who had before outmatched her by way of the auditory vigilance. I make another resolution at the thought. In a dramatic flare and certainly what should bewilder and confuse the possibly cunningly silent, I will stay in my room. She will now have no way of knowing that her quietness, so observantly learned, will yield the results she desires, if in fact, silence is what she is now actively doing, as opposed to passively, asleep in bed. Either way, I suffer no loss to the one who would hunt me within these walls. As I walk towards my computer, I count this as a victory for the younger Lalonde, and by extension, for quick-witted prey everywhere.


End file.
